


In the Hayloft

by purple_crayon (light_source)



Category: Flambards - K. M. Peyton
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/purple_crayon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way back from France, Christina and Will are temporarily delayed and forced to spend the night in a hayloft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hayloft

**Author's Note:**

> The italicised text at the beginning is from Peyton's original one-volume trilogy.

_She sat in the hay and felt very tired, as if she had come home from a hard day’s hunting. It was the same: the mud, the drops of moisture trickling down the back of her neck, physical exhaustion crushing all emotion save the gorgeous relief of being able to relax. And with it all the extra bliss, the bonus that was unique in her experience and nothing to do with hunting at all - the feeling for Will. “And he loves me, he wrote it down,” she thought. And he had never known how scared she was, she had come through without letting him down, and he loved her. She slept, as though the barn were paradise (p. 278)._

She was awakened, not knowing quite where she was, by the rustling of hay next to the nest where she lay, warm and heavy with sleep, wrapped in her woollen muffler. She yawned and propped herself up on one arm. It was Will. She remembered: they were very nearly home. But not close enough for her to be in her own warm bed in the attic dormitory.

“Mr. Russell,” she said with mock indignation. “This hotel is appalling. Much worse than the ‘Bunch of Grapes.’ I demand that you speak to the manager.”

Will was grimy beyond description, and, under the engine oil, white with exhaustion, but he was smiling. The smile eased the little line that had begun to appear between his eyes when he was concentrating on a particularly recalcitrant engineering problem.

“Tomorrow, Miss Parsons,” he said. “The front desk is closed, and the rotten receptionist is not at her station.” He yawned as he flopped down on the hay beside her.

“Make way,” he said, rolling closer to her and giving her a playful push.“That muffler must do for two tonight. My coat is soaking. It’s raining a bit out there.”

Will sat up, yanked off his muddy boots and tossed them aside. He wiped his hands on the hay. The carbide lantern he had brought in gave an achingly bright light in the low-ceilinged hayloft, and he adjusted the valve to reduce it to a glimmer. He lay back, closed his eyes, and sighed.

“We’re quite the aviators, Christina.”

“It’s all better?” she asked.

“All better.”

He propped himself up on one arm, mirroring her.

“I expect the oil pressure will be back to normal, though I didn’t start her. The field is full of cows, Christina. Every time I looked up there was a cow’s face staring at me. They’re English cows, though, so at least they could understand me when I was shouting at them.” He sighed. “We’ll get an early start in the morning.”

“It’s already the morning, you idiot.”

He grinned. “Give me back that piece of paper I gave you. I can’t love a woman who calls me ‘idiot.’”

“I don’t know why not! It’s one of your favorite words for me, along with ‘slave-girl’!” Christina shoved her hand into her skirt pocket where the note lay.

“Good luck getting it back!”

Playfully he reached towards the pocket and for a few moments they wrestled in the hay, Christina howling in protest. As his hands roved quite systematically through her clothes, she began to laugh until she felt that she would choke.

“It tickles! Stop!”

“I can manage that, I think,” said Will, and they fell back together into the nest and dissolved in laughter.

The hay was everywhere, stuck to their heavy jackets, twined in Christina’s loose and unknotted hair. The note was forgotten. An odd note of seriousness crept into Will’s voice.

“This is not the traditional sort of roll-in-the-hay, the kind Mark would approve of, you know.”

While she was framing a retort, his lips were on hers, softly at first. He kissed each of her lips, the corners of her mouth. Then, as she began to kiss him back, the kisses became more urgent, hot, demanding. His hands caressed her tangled and grease-flecked hair as he pressed her towards him, his palms on her temples, feeling the pulse of her racing heart. His mouth on hers was as consuming as the sky.

Christina felt herself awaken into a trance, overwhelmed by feelings that were somehow both familiar and new. They had known each other so long; played together, shared the humiliations of life at Flambards, survived the uncertainty of life after their escape to London. Christina, who like all girls of her class had been taught little about relations between men and women, nonetheless recognized that she was in some danger.

She turned her head away, breaking into the tumult, and felt Will’s breath, quick and warm, on her neck. They were silent a moment, and then the slanting dark eyes opened slowly and met her own. He leant towards her and nuzzled the edge of her eyebrow. The intensity of him, the boyish smell of sweat and engine oil, seemed to pull her in.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked. “Do you want me to stop?”

Christina knew what she ought to say. Dimly she thought of Aunt Grace, Mrs. Carter. They seemed very far away, in another country, another time.

“No,” she said. “I mean, not ‘no,’ but ‘no, I don’t want to stop.’ I don’t want to stop. I don’t.”

He laughed a little. And then he gathered her in his arms and she gave herself over to the feelings sweeping though her as she felt him, strong and sweet, kissing her with all the passion she had ever known. Their tongues intertwined, sweet, molten, and she felt his hands softly caressing the contours of her breasts as he expertly loosened her high-necked shirtwaist, pushed back the heavy woollen fabric of her jacket. Christina felt a moment of confusion - had he done this before? And with whom? But then she remembered how dexterously he could manage a warp-wire or reach to secure a tiny wing-nut on the aeroplane.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Christina.” When he leant over her she gave an involuntary moan of pleasure. For a long time, she seemed to float on the waves of desire he aroused as he kissed and caressed her breasts, her throat, her face. She was aware of nothing but his mouth and his hands on her bare skin.

After a while the flame of the carbide lamp sputtered and went out.

“Christina?” said Will softly. “Christina, my love - ”

She felt as though she were awakening from a dream. They were lying in the hay enwrapped in the woollen muffler, which smelled like a wet sheep, facing each other. Though she could barely make out his face, she put a finger to his lips.

“Yes,” she said. In the dark, she could feel his hands gently buttoning up her blouse, pulling the collar of her jacket close around her neck to keep out the cold. She rolled over, stretched a little. He pulled his wool coat up to cover them, wrapped his arms around her, kissed the back of her head.

And they slept.


End file.
